Presently, Crowell cleared his voice. “Surely not.”
“Surely yes,” Dominic said firmly. “Someone is making threatening calls, and the police are very concerned.”
“Police?” There was no mistaking the distaste in Crowell's voice. “Well, perhaps they should look at a friend or family member of that poor young man who was crucified. If the two of them were having an affair —”
Dominic had had enough. “Monsignor, you sent me down here to find out what was going on, did you not?”
“Well, yes, of course. Didn't I say so?”
“Did you want me to find out what's
really
going on, or did you expect me to find what you
wanted?
”
Thus cornered, Crowell had only one possible answer. “I wanted you to find out the truth, of course.” But he didn't sound jovial anymore.
“As I thought. I was sure you were honest in your concern.” That was an uncharitable twisting of the knife, but Dominic figured God would understand. “Well, I have found out what's going on down here.”
“Yes?” Crowell's interest returned.
“What's going on, Monsignor, is that St. Simeon's is blessed with the saintliest pastor in the diocese.”
“You can't know that so soon.”
“Yes, actually, I can. Brendan Quinlan is a priest who is willing to risk his life in order to carry out his pastoral responsibilities. How many of us can say that, Monsignor?”
“You —”
Dominic interrupted him. “It's not an act. He has twice refused to allow the police to protect him in ways that he feels would adversely affect his ability to serve this parish in spiritual ways.”
“Maybe,” said Crowell tightly, “he's hiding something.”
“No.” Dominic said the word firmly, and felt a wave of peace flow through him, uplifting him. For once he was putting himself on the line for what he believed was right. It was a fantastic feeling.
“You can't be sure,” Crowell said.
“Oh, I can be sure, Monsignor. I’ve been living with the man, working with him. I’ve been listening to him.”
“Well, then,” the monsignor said, his voice drawn taut, “perhaps it's time to return to your duties here at the chancery.”
“No,” Dominic said again, just as firmly. “I’m not leaving until this matter is settled.”
Silence conveyed the depth of Crowell's annoyance.
“I am not going to leave Brendan alone with this mess. Moreover, Monsignor, I’d like to know why the chancery is spreading ugly tales to the police about Father Brendan.”
“What?” But Crowell's astonishment seemed feigned to Dominic. He had lost whatever trust he had once foolishly felt for this man.
“Yes, it seems someone at the chancery said they've been getting calls linking Brendan with the mysterious death of a young man just before he left the navy. Only it seems no one at the chancery bothered to investigate. The supposed mysterious death was a suicide, hardly the kind of thing that happened to Steve King.”
“Well, it could be that …” But the monsignor trailed off, as if fearing he might reveal too much.
“I’ll tell you something, Monsignor,” Dominic continued, fully enjoying his moment of speaking out, consequences be damned. “If someone at the chancery is trying to direct the police investigation toward Brendan, then they're aiding and abetting the real killer by distracting the police. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't care to have that sin on my soul.”
“No,” Crowell answered, sounding more thoughtful and subdued than Dominic had ever heard him. “No, indeed I wouldn't. I’ll look into this, Father. I will definitely look into this.”
When Dominic hung up the phone, he felt better about himself than he had in a long, long time.
Matt told himself that if he'd had an ounce of common sense, he would have gone straight home to his own bed. He was weary, as he usually was when working a case. In his life, regular hours existed only in lulls between murder investigations.
But instead, he followed Chloe to her house, wondering why he was being an ass. She didn't want to get laid; he knew her better than that. Despite the inevitable whispers in the squad room when she'd been on the force — she was, after all, a beautiful woman — he knew damn well she wasn't easy. He'd made a kind of play for her, once upon a time, and discovered that Chloe didn't give her body unless she gave her heart, and these days he wasn't sure she had any heart left.
So why had she invited him over? Well, he supposed he was going to find out.
Cozy little house, not what he'd expected for a big shot lawyer. Near the church, which somehow didn't surprise him. Inside, however, the coziness was shortchanged by the decor, which was cool and nearly colorless, almost a reflection of Chloe herself.
But he knew that colorlessness was a lie. He could still remember a different Chloe. One who had passionately committed herself when she chose to commit. At least until that son of a bitch husband of hers had started beating on her.
“Have a seat,” she said, waving him to a couch upholstered in pastels so light they were almost invisible. He obediently plopped down. “What's your poison?” she asked.
“Anything nonalcoholic.”
She looked at him a moment, as if considering what he'd just said, her eyes reflecting nothing of what she thought. He realized that he'd love to make that face of hers express something. Anger. Passion. Hate. Anything but ice.
“Tea, soda, or coffee?” she asked.
“Soda. Please. Any kind.”
She brought them each a can of cola, then sat facing him in a Boston rocker.
“So,” he said finally, wondering what this was about.
“So,” she answered, smiling faintly.
Impatience prickled him. “Did you want to talk about something specific? The case?”
“Actually,” she said, her gaze fluttering away, “I wanted to talk about us. You and me.”
He barely restrained himself from expressing shock. “What about us?”
“We go back a long way, Matt.”
“I guess you could say that, even though I’ve hardly seen you in five years.”
“I know. I sort of ditched you right after … you proved I was innocent.”
“Understandable. Unpleasant associations and all of that.” But his hand was so tight around the can of cola that it ached, and he began to fear he would crush it. Carefully, he put it down on a coaster.
“Well, I feel bad about it, and I wanted you to know that.”
“No big deal.” Although at times over the years, it had felt like a very big deal.
“And I want you know that I’m glad you're on this case.”
“Sure.” Now he felt awkward. It was the luck of the draw, and all that. Someone else could just as easily have been assigned to Steve's homicide. It wasn't as if he'd done anything to wind up here.
“Well,” she said, “I just thought maybe it was time we mended some fences.”
“Your conscience getting the better of you?” He regretted the question as soon as it popped out. It was spoken in self-defense, but it didn't do a damn thing to “mend fences.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she said, some of the edge coming back to her voice.
“Good.” He managed that much, even if he couldn't quite summon an apology. After all, years ago there'd been a spark between them, a spark he'd never quite forgotten, but as soon as she got what she needed, namely getting cleared of the murder, she'd turned him off like a faucet.
“I’m sorry, Matt. I treated you badly.”
“Some might say that.”
She simply looked at him, waiting for whatever else he wanted to say, and that made him feel like a shit.
“Okay,” he said finally, “so we start fresh, here and now. What kind of fresh do you have in mind?”
She gave a little shrug. “Friends, maybe.”
“Sure, friends.” Once he had wanted far more than that. Now he wasn't sure he wanted even that much.
“You ever marry?” she asked.
He looked down at his naked hands. No rings. “Who'd want to marry a cop who doesn't keep regular hours? A cop who might as well be on another planet when he's involved in an investigation.”
“You always were intense.”
“So were you.”
“Yeah.”
He wondered if that was a faint blush in her cheeks, but he couldn't be sure because the lamplight was so yellow and dim. “Well, seeing as how we're both so intense, friendship is apt to be rocky.”
“I guess so.” Again that faint smile. But at least some of the tension went out of the air, as if they'd reached some kind of agreement.
“So,” she said, “how are we going to get this killer?”
“Damned if I know.” He reached for his cola again, feeling relaxed enough that he didn't think he would crush the can. He wasn't exactly certain what had been settled between them, but it seemed something had. “The evidence we have is so muddied it's hopeless. The techs are pretty sure the fibers came from the floor mat in a car, but that probably includes ten thousand cars. You know how that goes. A check showed there were nearly twenty places in this town alone that had been oil-and-graveled in the past few months, most of them alleys. The grass is your typical parking-lot sod. It matches the sod at the church.”
“So he might have been killed at the church.”
“My guess is he was.”
“Then why was he carried away and brought back?”
“That's the question, isn't it? Maybe it was a deliberate attempt to muddy the scene.”
She shook her head. “But think of the risks involved. If you kill somebody at the church, and your intention is to crucify the body at the church, why take it away and dump it in an alley?”
“Well, we don't
know
it was dumped in an alley. The vie might have picked up the gravel from the trunk of the car.”
“Yeah, right. How much gravel was there?”
He sighed. “Too much,” he admitted.
“So, okay, Matt. Face facts. Steve was murdered, moved, dumped, picked up, and crucified. Does that sound even remotely rational?”
“Hell, I’ve been convinced from the outset that this isn't a rational crime.”
Chloe looked down at the can she held, as if thinking. When she looked up, her face was completely without expression. “Have you considered, Matt, that we have multiple operators here?”
“Well, obviously. One man couldn't have gotten the vie up on that cross.”
“But what,” she said slowly, “if they weren't working
together?
”
It took him a split second to absorb what she was saying but when it hit him, all he could say was, “Whoa!”
She didn't speak, just let him think about it. He turned the idea around in his mind — he
did,
after all, have a lot of respect for her instincts, learned years ago when they'd worked together — but this was boggling his mind.
And yet, as he considered it, pieces began to fall into place, and the whole thing didn't look as crazy as it had looked ever since they found the body. Separate actors with different purposes. That would explain a lot.
“The only problem,” he said finally, “is why you'd have two different perps involved.”
“I know. It's been driving me nuts, Matt.”
“Well, now it's going to drive me nuts. Because, damn it, it fits.”
He drained his cola in one long swallow and slapped the can down on the coaster. Then he rose to his feet. “Thanks a bunch, Chloe. I won't get a wink of sleep now.”
“Sorry.”
He headed for the door, and she followed him. Once there, he stopped to face her. “You get any wild ideas at all, let me know.”
“I will.”
Then he did the stupidest thing of all. He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. And he knew as he drove away that he wasn't going to sleep at all, because of what she'd said, and because of what he'd felt when he kissed her.
Just the slightest quiver of response from soft lips. No, he wasn't going to be able to forget that.
The question was whether he wanted to walk into the Chloe Ryder buzz saw once again.
Across town, in a run-down motel room, a man turned into a monster by grief, anger, and hate, stared at the telephone and considered calling the priest again. He hadn't been satisfied by the message he'd left on voice mail. He'd wanted to hear the priest's voice. He'd wanted to hear the man's response.
But he didn't let himself make the call. He had too little time to waste it on indulging his hunger for the man's fear and distress. He had to figure out a way to get his quarry alone, and he had to do it soon. Time was running out.
In another, equally seedy hotel room, the watcher sat before the television, drinking scotch, his eyes glued to a TV show he wasn't watching.
The cannon was in town. The ball was rolling. His superiors were happy with him.
But he wasn't happy himself. For some strange reason, he was having qualms. Not just about the priest, but about the whole plan.
He kept trying to shake himself out of it. He'd devoted years to this plan, figuring it was the most patriotic thing he could do. The biggest and best thing he could do for his country.
But now he was wondering about that. And he didn't like it one little bit.
Chloe couldn't sleep. She'd tried to read herself into drowsiness, but the latest thriller she'd bought had proved too entertaining, so she'd picked up one of her bar journals and started reading about appellate practice, guaranteed to be soporific. Only her mind wouldn't focus on the articles. She thought about picking up the tattered Bible on her bedside table, then refrained. She doubted she would find comfort there, but comfort wasn't what she needed at the moment.
What she needed was to stop thinking, but her mind seemed determined to wander down the byways of the past and remind her of every one of her shortcomings. Inviting Matt over had apparently been a stupid thing to do.
Because she found herself remembering other times they'd shared a drink, usually after finishing a shift together. She remembered how Jules, her husband, had grown increasingly annoyed by that until she stopped seeing Matt at all, except when they had to work together. She remembered how Jules had continued to grow in jealousy and possessiveness until he was demanding she quit her job.
Jules had been a cop, too. He should have understood the hours and the strain. Or maybe he'd been reacting to his own stresses. All she knew was, as time went by, he hit her more and more often.